The Accidental Tourist - Anne Tyler [134]
“Thirty-five francs!” Macon said. “I don’t know how you could get any cheaper than that. Thirty-five francs is four dollars or so.”
“Oh, really? I thought francs and dollars were about the same.”
“Lord, no.”
“Well, then these things were super bargains,” Muriel said. “Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“But how will you get all this stuff on the plane?”
“Oh, I’ll figure out some way. Now let me take it back to my room so we can go eat.”
He stiffened. He said, “No, I can’t.”
“What harm would it do to eat supper with me, Macon? I’m someone from home! You’ve run into me in Paris! Can’t we have a bite together?”
When she put it that way, it seemed so simple.
They went to the Burger King on the Champs-Elysées; Macon wanted to recheck the place anyhow. He ordered two ‘Woppaires.’ “Careful,” he warned Muriel, “these are not the Whoppers you’re used to. You’ll want to scrape the extra pickle and onion off.” But Muriel, after trying hers, said she liked it the way it was. She sat next to him on a hard little seat and licked her fingers. Her shoulders touched his. He was amazed, all at once, that she really was here.
“Who’s looking after Alexander?” he asked her.
“Oh, different people.”
“What different people? I hope you haven’t just parked him, Muriel. You know how insecure a child that age can—”
“Relax. He’s fine. Claire has him in the daytime and then Bernice comes in and cooks supper and any time Claire has a date with the General the twins will keep him or if the twins can’t do it then the General says Alexander can . . .”
Singleton Street rose up in front of Macon’s eyes, all its color and confusion.
After supper Muriel suggested they take a walk, but Macon said he was tired. He was exhausted, in fact. They returned to their hotel. In the elevator Muriel asked, “Can I come to your room a while? My TV set only gets snow.”
“We’d better say good night,” he told her.
“Can’t I just come in and keep you company?”
“No, Muriel.”
“We wouldn’t have to do anything,” she said.
The elevator stopped at his floor. He said, “Muriel. Don’t you understand my position? I’ve been married to her forever. Longer than you’ve been alive, almost. I can’t change now. Don’t you see?”
She just stood in her corner of the elevator with her eyes on his face. All her makeup had worn off and she looked young and sad and defenseless.
“Good night,” he said.
He got out, and the elevator door slid shut.
He went to bed immediately but couldn’t sleep after all, and ended up switching on the T V. They were showing an American western, dubbed. Rangy cowboys spoke a fluid, intricate French. Disaster followed disaster—tornadoes, Indians, droughts, stampedes. The hero stuck in there, though. Macon had long ago noticed that all adventure movies had the same moral: Perseverance pays. Just once he’d like to see a hero like himself—not a quitter, but a man who did face facts and give up gracefully when pushing onward was foolish.
He rose and switched the set off again. He tossed and turned a long time before he slept.
Large hotels, small hotels, dingy hotels with their wallpaper flaking, streamlined hotels with king-sized American beds and Formica-topped American bureaus. Dim café windows with the proprietors displayed like mannequins, clasping their hands behind their backs and rocking from heel to toe. Don’t fall for prix fixe. It’s like a mother saying, “Eat, eat”—all those courses forced on you . . .
In the late afternoon Macon headed wearily back to his own